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of the stomach are disgorged, or the excrement voided, either of
which is adroitly caught by this foul freebooter of the sea before it
reaches the water.
A hazy moonless night, with a sou’-easterly breeze and drizzling
rain—given these conditions, at this season of the year we have
numerous visits of various birds, members of the autumnal migratory
flight. Making straight for the light, they dash themselves against the
heavy plate-glass of the lantern; many of them are thus killed and
swept by the wind into the sea. Others, again, arrive with more
caution, and though taken in the hand and thrown clear of the tower
invariably return, and remain fluttering against the glass till daylight
reveals to them the futility of their exertions in that direction. The
most numerous of these visitors are the redwings and fieldfares, but
blackbirds, larks, starlings, wheatears, finches, tits, etc., may be met
with in the course of the season. It is somewhat startling, when on
watch in the lightroom, to hear the thud with which they strike. The
woodcock, owing to his rapid flight, strikes hardest of all, and the
other extreme is met with in the smallest of our British birds, the tiny
gold-crested wren, whose presence on the lantern is announced by
a feeble tinkling sound, which a robust butterfly might easily imitate.
The heavier birds do not always strike with impunity; instances have
occurred where ducks have gone clean through the lantern to the
derangement of the revolving gear of the light, the splintered glass
bringing the machinery to a dead stop. An incident of this nature
happened a few years ago at Turnberry Lighthouse, on the Ayrshire
coast, the intruder in this case being a curlew or whaup. A storm-
pane is considered a necessary adjunct to every lightroom, and is
always held in readiness to be shipped in case of such emergency.
At some shore stations it is customary on the approach of a
favourable night, during the migratory period, to keep the cats
indoors to prevent them mangling the expected catch. In one
particular instance the birds collected of a morning filled an ordinary
clothes-basket, and a few nights later included five wild geese, which
were secured out of a large flock that came to grief on the dome.
An hour before daybreak on the 22nd it appeared as if we were
about to suffer a bombardment, and that daylight was to witness the
commencement of hostilities. No less than seven torpedo-boat
destroyers were seen creeping close up to the Rock, their low black
hulls scarcely discernible in the feeble light, and not until daylight
disclosed the white ensign were we assured of their intentions. A
little later they were joined by three gunboats and, after some clever
manœuvring, formed into three lines, the gunboats occupying the
centre. They then steamed away in the direction of the Firth of Forth.
Two hours later other three gunboats passed us, going in the same
direction, escorted by four destroyers, and followed shortly after by a
solitary gunboat. Extremely interesting it was to witness the precision
and dexterity of their movements as they swung into their respective
positions for the advance, their semaphores all the while going like
windmills. Again, on the 24th, about 11 a.m., a fleet of about a dozen
battleships, headed by a dispatch boat, was seen moving in stately
procession from the Tay, evidently bound for the Forth.
We have had several heliographic communications from our
shore station in Arbroath during the month, and providing there is
sunshine there is now no difficulty in transmitting messages to the
Rock by this means. Four years ago the late Dr Russell, Arbroath,
while on a professional visit to the shore station, for which he was
medical attendant, witnessed our initial attempts in this direction,
and, convinced of the feasibility of the method, urged upon us, in his
characteristically vigorous style, the necessity for persevering in our
attempts, at the same time predicting that it would ultimately prove
successful. Little did we then dream it was soon to become the
means of conveying the sorrowful intelligence of this estimable
gentleman’s death.
 NOVEMBER 1901.

Boisterous weather prevailing for the greater part of this month, we

have been closely confined to the house. Our connection with the
amphibia being so extremely remote completely disqualifies us from
enjoying our usual “constitutional,” the grating, even at low water,
being occasionally swept by the heavy seas. Our winter boarders,
the eider ducks, have been reinforced, on the morning of the 14th—
somewhat later than usual—by the arrival of a flock of long-tailed
ducks. These, with the eiders, will keep us company till April again
calls their attention to domestic affairs. Our relief, which was due on
the night of the 11th, was effected just in time; had it been delayed
another day a “missed relief” would probably have been recorded.
The morning after brought a severe north-easterly gale, which
precluded all possibility of making a landing during the three
succeeding days. That is usually the time allotted by the steamer in
the attempt. Should she fail to make a landing on the third day, we
are abandoned for another fortnight, minus the time engaged in the
attempt. As our stock of fresh provisions is generally consumed by
the time the relief is due, a missed relief means a fortnight’s regime
of “hard tack” and “beef embalmed,” of which during the winter
months we have a three months’ reserve stock on hand in case of
such emergencies. Fortunately, this is not of common occurrence;
during the past six years but three reliefs have been missed, and
only one in the preceding ten. This speaks much for the ability and
skill of those concerned in the handling of the boats, for during the
winter months the landings were until recently effected in darkness,
and an exciting scene it was to see the two boats buffeting their way
through the foaming channels, with jutting rocks so close on either
side that an oar’s length deviation would entail serious disaster. A
powerful searchlight has of recent years been added to the
equipment of the relieving steamer, and is of much advantage in the
guidance of the boats, though it has the peculiarity of grossly
exaggerating the tempestuous appearance of the sea. The sea,
which on the evening of the relief was comparatively calm, was the
next day rolling down on us like a solid wall, and viewed from the
balcony in all its magnificent grandeur what a puny, frail, unstable
structure our habitation seemed in comparison. Each succeeding
wave seemed imbued with the sole motive of accomplishing our
destruction, and as they struck and sliced away on either side in two
mighty crescents of hissing foam, blinded our kitchen windows
seventy feet above the rock. Clashing together again to leeward with
a roar, as if incensed at our stubborn resistance, they drive their way
furiously along the remaining portion of the reef in foam-capped
ridges, and where the cross seas meet them the spray is flung high
in the air from their points of intersection. The appearance of the reef
at this stage, as seen from our elevation, is of a number of
rectangular enclosures, each about the size of an ordinary bowling-
green, with well-defined walls, the whole under a heavy coating of
snow, with each corner marked by a snow-laden tree. At high
water—the sea having flowed about twelve or fifteen feet on the
building by that time—the waves, generally unbroken, slip past
harmlessly; an hour before or after high water is when we
experience the heaviest shocks, for then the depth of water is such
that the waves are arrested by the rock when close to the tower, and
their whole volume flung violently against the building. The effect of
such weather on the tower must be felt to be understood. The
nearest description I can give of the seas striking is as if a log of
wood were hurled by each sea, striking end on, and a short, sharp,
tremulous motion—sufficient to rattle the crockery in the kitchen
cupboard—is imparted to the tower by each impact. This tremor is
more particularly felt when the gale subsides and the heavy swell
sets in, for when the gale is at its height, the seas are so broken and
tossed about that their assaults are but feeble in comparison with
those of the long curly-headed combers of the after-swell. The bell-
shaped formation of the base of the tower is admirably adapted for
withstanding the assaults of the sea, and is built solid to a height of
thirty feet, above which the seas never strike, though I have seen the
spray carried right over our balcony, a hundred feet from the rock.
That the building remains to all appearance as intact as when
completed, almost a century ago, speaks volumes for the skill and
ingenuity displayed in its erection. In weather such as I have
described we are as completely cut off from outside assistance as
though we were at the North Pole; indeed, it is doubtful if there is
another situation—save similar ones, of course—where men could
live so comfortable and unconcerned and yet remain for the time
being so completely “ungetatable.”
 DECEMBER 1901.

As a consequence of the stormy weather which has been prevailing

here of late, we have been visited by numerous “Travellers.” This
may seem strange considering the inclemency of the season, but
stranger still when it is known that our reception of them is fiercely
hostile, and our duty only considered accomplished when we have
completely annihilated them. Huge boulders of hard red sandstone,
sometimes weighing over three tons; these are our “Travellers,” and
their appearance on the Rock is at once resented and their speedy
removal effected by blasting and hammering whenever the tide and
weather permits. This is absolutely necessary, for if allowed to
remain lying in the boat tracks they constitute a serious danger at
relief times, besides the possibility of their carrying away portions of
our cast-iron grating, which occasionally does happen in spite of all
precautions. Where they come from is a mystery; ever since the
tower was built they have been in evidence. Although composed of
the same material, the Rock itself does not suffer any apparent
diminution, nor can their original abode be located even at the lowest
tides. Many of them carry a crop of seaweed and tangles, and have
their angularities rubbed down and water-worn; none of them,
however, bear any trace of recent detachment, but probably from
their similarity of structure they at some remote period formed a part
of the reef. They generally effect their entrance from the south side
of the reef during the prevalence of a heavy ground swell. This side
of the reef forms a steep declivity, sloping to 35 fathoms at a
distance of ¾ mile, while at a similar distance on the north side the
depth, though not exceeding 11 fathoms, presents a more
precipitous barrier to these wanderers of the deep. A dull, rumbling
noise, distinctly audible in the light room, announces their presence
at the base of the tower, and at low water a dotted line of chips and
abrasions marks their passage across the Rock to where they are
again hurled to the depths. Others, again, may bring up in some
sheltered corner, where, if not considered dangerous, they may
remain a fixture for years.
An instance occurred recently where one was wheeled against
our grating after occupying a safe position for many years. Those
that take up positions in the boat tracks are of course assailed at the
earliest opportunity, an operation which generally entails a bit of
submarine mining on our part. The reef consists of hard, red
sandstone, arranged in irregular layers, with a dip of 15 degrees
towards the south-east and extends in a north-easterly and south-
westerly direction, having an area of about 500 yards by 100 yards
considered dangerous to shipping. The north-east end, on which the
Lighthouse is built, is slightly higher, and has an area of about 140
yards by 70 yards, the highest portions of which do not exceed 10
feet above the lowest tides. The geological formation of the Bell
Rock is similar to that of the Redhead, in Forfarshire, and can be
traced northward through Rossshire, while in the opposite direction
the shores of Berwick present the same features, and continues as
far as Cumberland. Soundings prove the existence of a ridge or
shallower part of the sea bottom extending a considerable way in
these directions, and as the adjacent coasts present ample evidence
of the sea having at some remote period in the world’s history
occupied a much higher level, the theory that the Bell Rock did not
always occupy the isolated position it now does, but stretched
continuously from the Red Head to Berwick, damming the waters of
the Forth and Tay, appears highly tenable. Possibly our present day
“Travellers” are, through some great seismic disturbance, wandering
evidences supporting this theory.
An item of interest to Arbroath Freemasons is the laying of the
foundation stone of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, on the 10th July 1808,
with Masonic honours, by the builder, Robert Stevenson, who, in his
own words, applied the square, the level, and the mallet, and
pronounced the following benediction:—“May the Great Architect of
the Universe complete and bless this building,” on which three hearty
cheers were given and success to the future operations was drunk
with the greatest enthusiasm. Another interesting feature of that
period was the existence of the “Pressgang,” which, owing to our war
with the Northern Powers, was considered necessary. Centres were
established at Dundee, Aberdeen, and Arbroath, and were the
means of rendering the Lighthouse operations popular with seamen,
as they stood protected from impressment while in that employment.
Prior to this there was a tendency among seamen to shun the works
on account of the hazardous nature of the undertaking. As the
impress officers were exceedingly active in their duty, it was found
necessary to furnish each seaman engaged in the operations at the
Rock with a “ticket,” descriptive of his person, to which was attached
a silver medal, emblematical of the Lighthouse Service. On one side
of the medal was a figure of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, and on the
other the word “Medal,” referring to the Admiralty protection, and a
description of the person by the engineer. One of these medals is at
present in possession of an Arbroath gentleman, and is said to be
the only one in existence. The following is a copy of one of the
“tickets,” taken from “Stevenson’s Bell Rock Lighthouse”:—
Bell Rock Workyard,
Arbroath, 31st March 1808.
“John Pratt, seaman, in the service of the Honourable the
Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses, aged 35 years,
5 feet 8 inches high, black complexion, and slightly marked
with the smallpox.”
(Signed) Robert Stevenson,
Engineer for Northern Lighthouses.
Obverse.
“The Bearer, John Pratt, is serving on board of the ‘Sir
Joseph Banks’ tender and craft, employed at the erection of
the Bell Rock Lighthouse.”
The signature of the Master of the tender.
(Signed) David Taylor.
The signature of the bearer (Signed) John Pratt.
Notwithstanding these precautions, so rigorous were the impress
officers that they actually pressed a Bell Rock seaman named
George Dall, while on a visit to some friends near Dundee, in July
1810, and this despite the fact of his having the protection medal and
ticket in his possession. These proofs the officer chose to ignore,
holding that a seaman only stood protected on board the ship to
which the Admiralty protection had been granted, or in a boat
belonging to the ship. This was absurd, as it was impossible for each
man to carry the ship’s protection with him. However, Dall was kept a
prisoner, and only on the representations of the Lighthouse
Commissioners did the Dundee Magistrates order his release.
 JANUARY 1902.

A ramble round the rocks at low water just now discloses a scene of
bareness quite in keeping with the season of the year. The upper
surface of the higher lying rocks is as bare as a street pavement,
and only an occasional patch of acorn barnacles remains of the
encrustation with which they were invested during the summer. The
white whelk, so much in evidence here, have all gone into winter
quarters, and underneath projecting ledges and in sheltered nooks
they may be seen in myriads, their position being so judiciously
chosen as to be completely protected from the heavy north-east
seas. So closely are they wedged together that were a given space
to be cleared it would be found almost impossible to replace them in
the same area. Detaching one from its anchorage, it seems quite
dormant and inert, and appears to have lost the alacrity with which,
in summer, they withdraw themselves into their shells, and only with
apparent difficulty is the operculum or door of their domicile closed
against intruders. To witness the continual thumping and pounding to
which the Rock is subjected during the winter, one is surprised to
find that life in any form should continue to exist under such
conditions. A close search reveals exceedingly minute forms of life.
Here in this stony basin, originally but a shallow depression in which
a stone had lodged, and by the swirling action of the seas converted
to its present shape, with its sediment of broken shells, is a small
crab, so small indeed that a split pea might easily conceal him. He is
not a youngster either, but fully adult, in proof of which we have
frequently found them, in the proper season, with their spawn
attached. Deep in his little pit he seems quite immune from the
furious seas that tumble overhead as the tide makes. Numbers of
small white-banded whelks, which one may easily crush between the
fingers, maintain their position on the base of the tower, despite the
constant swirl of waters, though they may be detached with a flick of
the finger.
 Vegetation now exists only at low-water mark; above that, broken
tangle roots, or, to be more correct, the claspers are seen still
adhering to the rocks, the tangles themselves having been shorn
clean from their moorings. Away towards the south-west, in the
deeper water, a boat may float among whole groves of storm-torn
tangles as they flaunt their tattered banners in the frosty sunlight,
suggestive of leafless trees in a winter landscape. Over the recently
emptied contents of the cook’s slop-pail a flock of gulls are circling
and screaming, actually hustling each other in their attempts to
capture anything edible. A solitary “black-back” is seen amongst the
noisy crowd, and as he swoops at some tempting morsel, his black,
beady eye watches our every movement with suspicion. What a
handsome bird he is as he swings past within a few feet of us, the
back and wings presenting a dead black appearance in startling
contrast with the immaculate whiteness of the fan-shaped tail and
the remainder of the body. Despite his handsome appearance, he is
a veritable vulture, and nothing comes amiss to him in the way of
food, be it fish, flesh or fowl. Frequently I have seen them make a
meal of a wounded duck, and once witnessed in Orkney a tug-of-war
between two of them for the possession of a dead lamb, resulting,
thanks to its decomposed state, in an equal division.
More gruesome meals are credited to them by those who have
witnessed their proceedings on a wreck strewn shore where loss of
life had been involved. A terror also on the grouse moors, they
devour both eggs and young, and even the sitting grouse herself is
not safe from him. One can scarcely credit such a sweeping
indictment against this handsome bird, but the proofs are all too
plain. Consequently we find him outside the pale of the Wild Birds
Protection Act, an Ishmael among his kind, whom any man may slay
when and wherever found. Except when harrying the eider ducks of
their legitimate spoil, he may be seen riding gracefully, head to wind,
in front of our kitchen window, with his weather eye always lifting in
our direction. A hand thrust from the window is sufficient invitation,
he is up at once, and the smallest morsel tossing among the foaming
breakers does not escape his keen eye. How gracefully he floats
back to his former position, lighting on the surface like a fleck of
foam. What a contrast to the eiders, who, when changing their
fishing ground, wing their way with such rapid wing beats as to give
one the impression that they are barely able to support themselves,
and finally strike the water with an awkward splash, reminding one of
the somewhat inelegant term with which boys designate a bad
dive—a “gutser.” Should a flock of eiders be fishing to leeward of the
tower, an amusing sight may be witnessed if advantage be taken,
while they are under water, of pouring a little paraffin oil from the
balcony, so that it will drift in their direction. No sooner does the head
of the first emerge in the greasy track of the oil than he is conscious
of something unusual having taken place. Flippering hither and
thither with outstretched neck, he becomes quite excited, and each
as he bounces to the surface joins in the commotion, frequently
colliding with each other. Finally, with loud cacklings, the whole flock
takes wing, evidently in high dudgeon at the insult offered to their
olfactory organs.
Sea pheasant is the name by which the long tailed duck is known
in some localities, and as we watch a flock of them crossing the reef
in full flight the synonym is at once apparent. In style of flight and
shape, to the long tail feathers, they are similar to the pheasant, but
only half the size, with beautiful plumage of black and white. Here
they are known as “candlewicks,” their call notes needing but little
stretch of the imagination to be rendered “Here’s a candlewick,”
repeated several times in shrill falsetto, which on a quiet day
becomes somewhat annoying as it clamorously floats through our
bedroom window. Some queer visitors we have here at times in the
way of birds. Once we captured a large owl dosing sleepily in one of
our windows. During the week of his captivity he would not deign to
partake of any food we offered him. Coming off watch one night I
took one of a flock of larks which were making suicidal attempts to
pierce the plate glass of the lantern. Placing it in the room where the
owl was roosting, it fluttered to the window, when, like a flash of
lightning and equally as noiseless, from the other side of the room
the owl came crash against the glass, a few feathers later on
testifying his appreciation of this form of dietary.
 FEBRUARY 1902.

Piercing cold weather here of late, with a good deal of frost and
occasional snow showers. No matter how heavy the snowfall may be
here we only see it falling, as it does not lie long round our doors,
and only when our gaze is directed Arbroathwards—which, you may
be sure, is not seldom—are we reminded of its occurrence. The
close of last month saw our barometer taxed to its utmost
intelligence, and though a tenth higher would have seen its limit,
nothing of a phenomenal nature was noted. The solan geese or
gannets, which are pretty much in evidence here during the breeding
season, foraging for their families on the Bass Rock, gradually
disappeared, till during the month of November not one was to be
seen. A solitary one was seen in the first week of December, and
since then the number sighted has gradually increased, till in the
middle of the present month, as many as eight in one string were
counted winging their way southward. The Bass Rock, Ailsa Craig,
and the outlying stacks of lonely St Kilda, are said to be the only
breeding places of these birds in Scotland. At the beginning of the
past century they were considered a dainty article of food by the
Edinburgh gentry, and the Bass Rock was rented for the purpose of
supplying the market, the birds selling at the rate of half-a-crown a-
piece. I have seen it stated that the modus operandi of these birds
when engaged in fishing is to flit along the surface till fish are
sighted, when they rise to a high altitude, close their wings, and drop
hawk-like on their prey. This, I venture to think, is scarcely correct.
My experience is that when flitting near the surface if fish are sighted
they are invariably struck at without rising to a higher elevation. It is a
well known fact that objects under water are more easily
distinguished from a height than from near the surface, so that it may
be taken for granted that the higher these birds are flying when in
pursuit of prey the deeper the fish are swimming. Again, when diving
from a high altitude, the wings are kept rigidly outspread, and as the
tail is never seen spread rudder-like, as in the case of the hawk, any
deviation from their line of descent is controlled by the long narrow
wings, and only when nearing the “plunge” are they partially closed.
For the past fortnight we have had the company of a solitary seal.
His fishing does not seem to be very successful, either in quantity or
quality, as the only catch we have seen him negotiating was a saithe
the length of a man’s forearm. Playing with it as a cat would a
mouse, he would allow it to swim feebly for some distance, then
diving he would bring it to the surface, till latterly, with a toss of his
head and a thrust with his fore flipper, he quite disembowelled it, an
act of charity which the screaming gulls were not slow to appreciate.
Although so long here he has not been seen to rest on the rocks;
indeed, I only once saw one ashore here, and as we had a
somewhat amusing experience with him it will perhaps bear relating.
For several days it was seen, as the tide fell, to rest in one particular
place a few yards from the base of the tower. Our outer door opens
outwards, and is always closed at night, not that we are afraid of
burglars, but merely to prevent the entrance of the seas, and for our
own general comfort. The opening of this door always alarmed the
seal, and sent him into the water instanter. Dropping a line from the
balcony at low water, we made the end of it fast within a few feet of
his accustomed resting place. Next day, as the tide fell and the rocks
began to appear, he was seen to take up his former position,
yawning lazily as he rolled from side to side in the sunshine. Fixing a
four ounce charge of tonite to our electric cable, we quietly lowered it
down the line we had already made fast till within about six feet from
where he lay, apparently in blissful ignorance of what was happening
overhead. When yawning at his widest, we, by means of our
magneto-exploder, fired the charge, and, well—he stopped yawning
and went away! and his going was about the smartest thing I ever
witnessed. The force of the explosion, being unconfined, merely
tilted him on his side, but quickly recovering himself he flopped into
the water and shot seaward through the gully like a flash, a black line
under water denoting his course. Rounding the outer end of the
gully, he doubled back on the outside of the reef, and when opposite
his original position, made his appearance on the surface, a very
much startled seal. His aspect was quite comical as he stood, so to
speak, on his tip-toes evidently investigating the cause of his hurried
departure.
Several schools of porpoises have been seen this month,
presumably in pursuit of herring. To anyone who has seen these
animals gambolling in front of a ship’s bows when travelling at her
best, the ease with which they maintain their distance is a matter of
surprise—always on the point of being run down, but ever ahead,
snorting playfully as if in derision at the possibility of their being
overtaken by their lumbering follower. Off the island of Anticosta, in
the Gulf of St Lawrence—where these animals attain a size several
times larger than those of our home waters, and are of a cream
colour—I had an interesting view of their manner of suckling their
young. I have seen it stated that the mother by muscular
compression expels the nutritive fluid, which is absorbed by the
young one as it floats to the surface. The operation appeared to me
to be one of actual contact. The young one—which, by the way, is of
a slatey-blue colour—snuggling as close as possible to the mother
as she lay somewhat on her side on the surface, all the while
exhibiting the tenderest solicitude for her offspring. Truly the one
touch of nature which makes the whole world kin. It is surprising to
learn the evolution these animals have undergone in order to
accommodate themselves to their altered circumstances. Land-
dwellers at one stage of the world’s history, but acquiring a taste for
fish, they gradually became aquatic in their habits, dispensing with
such portions of their anatomy as were no longer necessary, while
developing others more appropriate to their new sphere of existence,
till, like their big brother the whale, from being a four-footed animal
they became quite fish like in appearance, even to the cultivation of
a dorsal fin, though still possessing rudimentary traces of their
former construction. Change is apparent on every hand in the plan of
nature; ages were necessary for the evolution of our present day
horse from his five toed ancestors; and after all it does not seem so
very startling when the transformation is enacted before our very
eyes in a few short stages, as in the case of the common frog, from
the gill breathing tadpole to the lung breathing adult. More startling it
is to learn that man himself was at one time a gill breather, and, as
biologists affirm, still exhibits traces of gill clefts at one stage of his
embryonic development.
 MARCH 1902.

Signs of uneasiness and unrest are now apparent amongst our

winter boarders, the eiders and long-tailed ducks. Taking wing on the
slightest provocation, they wheel aimlessly round the Rock, and
instead of their usual steady persistence in diving for a living, they
seem quite discontented with their lot, and plainly making up their
minds to desert us for the summer. Advances by the males are as
yet met with scornful rebuffs by their less showy plumaged partners,
but soon a mutual understanding will be arrived at, and before the
month closes they will have gone house-hunting, eiders possibly to
the Isle of May, while the long-tails, being migratory, seek their
homes in the frozen North. It seems a strange anomaly that the less
robust looking longtail should choose such rigorous latitudes for the
rearing of its brood, while the sturdy “dunter,” swathed in his arctic
coat, should elect to stay at home. On the other hand, we have been
visited on hazy nights by numbers of larks and thrushes returning to
our shores, after wintering in “Norroway ower the faem.” These
members of the spring migratory movement often come to grief on
our lantern, and when one considers the number of lighthouses
round our coasts, it will be understood that the death-roll from this
cause alone must be extremely high. Designed to save life, we
unwittingly lure our feathered friends to their destruction.
A couple of seals have been sporting round our door of late, and
they also exhibit signs of exuberance in keeping with the season. At
high water they come quite close to the tower, and their antics are
seen to advantage from our balcony. Rolling over each other, they
make for the bottom, gliding along the rocks like hounds hunting in
couples; then with a rush they are on the surface, floating bolt
upright, with their muzzles almost touching, staring with their large,
expressive eyes into each other’s face. An almost human touch was
given to their play by one taking the head of the other between his
fore-flippers, as if about to salute him, or more likely her, in the
orthodox fashion. One was seen the other morning in possession of
a large fish, while a number of gulls sat at a safe distance round him,
waiting for the fragments when the feast should begin. By the way he
glared at them, he was evidently annoyed at their presence. Sinking
for a few seconds, he appeared on the surface minus the fish. This
was evidently intended as a ruse, and meant to imply that he had
lost it; but the gulls seemed to know better, and kept their position.
Diving, he made his appearance some distance off, this time with the
fish in his mouth, only to find himself, to his annoyance, again the
centre of wistful expectations. Presuming these gulls to be up-to-
date birds, their exulting cacklings might be literally rendered—“You
better begin, Mister Phoca; it’s no use trying, you know; you can’t
possibly dewett us!” At least, the seal seemed to think so, for he
there and then opened the banquet with a rip of his teeth that
distributed the offal amongst the hungry cordon.
The rocks become at this season of the year invested with a
slippery coating of algæ, which renders it extremely difficult to
maintain one’s footing, and also necessitates repeated applications
of hot lime to our gratings in order to render them passable. Myriads
of minute whelks, no larger than turnip seed, strew the rocks and
crunch under foot as we walk, while great patches of mussel spawn
delight the heart of the more venturesome of the white whelks—a
prospecting party who will doubtless communicate the promising
state of the commissariat to their fellows still in winter quarters.
Fishing in the Rock pools has been tried for the first time this
season, and resulted in the capture of a solitary “cobbler.” It may be
a month hence before we meet with any success.
This month has been extremely mild, though the hills behind
Arbroath are still seen to carry portions of their winter coat, while the
higher ranges inland are completely snow-capped. On a clear day
our view is limited by Tod Head, about twenty-five miles to the north,
and St Abb’s Head thirty miles south of us. The coast-line presents a
uniform flatness, which becomes monotonous in comparison with the
more picturesque raggedness of the West Coast. A most
conspicuous feature in the landscape in the vicinity of Arbroath is the
clump of trees on the summit of the Law Hill—a landmark well known
to navigators, and easily discernible, as it stands sharply defined
against the sky-line. Arbroath, when not enveloped in smoke, is
clearly seen, and with the aid of our telescope the after-church
promenaders can be distinguished on the Protection Wall, or
wending their way towards the Victoria Park.
 APRIL 1902.

The extremely low tides prevalent at the opening of the month

enabled us to extend our hunting grounds somewhat further than
usual, and also to reach and demolish several “travellers” which the
heavy seas had hurled into the boat tracks, thus constituting a
serious danger at relief times. Quite a forest of luxuriant tangles now
cover the lower lying portion of the reef. Their dripping blades appear
on the surface, scintillating in the brilliant sunshine like so many
diamonds, till the receding tide permits the warm sun to rob them of
their freshness, their beauty vanishing in a perceptible vapour,
leaving them flaccid and inert till the returning tide restores their
pristine beauty. The badderlock or henware is here also in great
profusion, and usually selects a position the reverse of peaceful,
being generally found where the wash of the seas is most constant.
Of rapid growth, they attain a great length, some measuring fully
sixteen feet; one we had under observation was seen to increase a
foot in length in six weeks time. Owing to hazy weather we had a
number of compulsory visitors to dinner yesterday. Seated outside
our kitchen window was a party of fog-bound travellers, consisting of
a pigeon, a starling, a wagtail, a robin, and a couple of wheatears.
The starling was sitting bunched up by himself, preserving a stolid
indifference at his enforced detention, and appeared to treat the
animated expansion and flirting of the wheatears’ tails as undue
levity, unbecoming their sorrowful predicament. The beautiful black-
throated wagtail is all alertness, and the slightest movement on our
part sends him circling round the Rock till, unable to sight the land,
he is fain to regain his resting place. The pigeon has been here a
week now, and evidently has no intention of leaving. Should the
window be left open he makes bold enough to enter, although but
the other day he gave us a somewhat dramatic illustration of the
proverbial hen on the hot “griddle” by rehearsing a fandango on the
top of our cooking range, a position from which he had to be forcibly